


surrogate

by bonebo



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Amputation, Feminization, Forced Feminization, Forced Marriage, Fucking Machine, Hypnosis, M/M, Mindbreak, Rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: After the horrific events of the Purge--with the death and destruction and loss still painfully fresh in his mind, despite the many months passed--Snow has been hesitant to engage with any of what’s left of the Estheim family, but especially the young Hope. Even now Snow can’t look at the boy without seeing Nora in the structure of his face and the soft shine of his silver hair, and the weight of Hope’s blame still rests heavy and crushing on Snow’s shoulders.He doesn’t know if it’s a burden he’ll ever truly get rid of.





	1. Chapter 1

Snow Villiers has just stepped out of the shower when his cell phone, sitting safely away from the water’s spray on the wide bathroom sink, pings with a loud noise to let him know he’s received a message.

“Oh, who is it,” Snow grumbles, scrubbing a soft towel through his dripping wet hair, made a dark off-white and extra messy by the water’s hold. He’d just gotten back to his home the day before--and it had been so late that he was dropping into bed only minutes before the sun started to rise, shooting color across the dark sky--and, after the rough week he’s had, he’s been sorely looking forward to a day of nothing but rest.

Snow drags the towel down his body, drying off the pale curls of hair clustered around his navel and lower, where they grow thick and dark blonde surrounding the meat of his flaccid cock and tight, velvet-soft balls. Only when everything between his thighs is dry does Snow wrap the towel around his waist and head over to the sink, grabbing his phone up and tapping in the unlock code to see who has messaged him.

He stops in his tracks when he sees it’s an e-mail from Hope.

After the horrific events of the Purge--with the death and destruction and loss still painfully fresh in his mind, despite the many months passed--Snow has been hesitant to engage with any of what’s left of the Estheim family, but especially the young Hope. Even now Snow can’t look at the boy without seeing Nora in the structure of his face and the soft shine of his silver hair, and the weight of Hope’s blame still rests heavy and crushing on Snow’s shoulders.

He doesn’t know if it’s a burden he’ll ever truly get rid of.

Still, Snow sighs and swallows his trepidation and opens the email, one dark brow quirking at the message that he finds.

_Snow--_

_I haven’t forgotten your bravery during the Purge, and I never got to thank you properly. Please come by my house at your earliest convenience. I have a package waiting here for you. It is a gift, of sorts._

_\--Hope_

Snow rereads the message another time, and then once more, nothing short of confused; in the list of people he would think thankful for his actions during the Purge, people who would want to initiate contact with him, Hope Estheim is very close to the bottom. 

Snow mulls over the letter as he gets dressed, picking out a simple pair of dark pants from the closet and fishing out a shirt from his hamper that looks and smells relatively clean. All things considered, he doesn’t have very much pressing to do today; and it’s not like Hope lives a terribly far distance away. It wouldn’t be a horrible idea to drop by Hope’s house on his way out to pick up groceries for the week, and save himself from having to leave the house again. 

So that’s what Snow does.

He grabs a taxi as soon as he gets outside, and spends the entire drive to the Estheim residence mulling over what package Hope could possibly have waiting for him. He can’t shake the feeling of uncertain dread that lingers in the bottom of his gut, though, and hesitates inside the car when it finally does pull up to the manor.

Something in his core is telling him to leave--that this isn’t right, that nothing good will come from following up to this message. But when the silence stretches on and Snow continues to wait, the taxi driver scowls sourly over his shoulder and snaps, “Hey, buddy, you gonna get out or what? I got shit to do today!”

Snow rolls his eyes and throws a handful of money at the driver, then climbs out of the car; and if he slams the door a little harder than necessary, well, it was only in his haste to leave. The taxi car tears off and Snow watches it go for just a moment before he turns toward the house, taking in all of it--the grand courtyard and the huge structure, the gleaming windows two stories up. 

It looks almost like a castle, Snow thinks. He grins to himself and idly wonders if Bartholomew has a dungeon.

Dismissing the silly idea, Snow heads up to the door of the house and raps his knuckles against the wood in a brisk knock. When the door opens he’s already got a greeting for Hope on his tongue, but instead it is Bartholomew that stands there, with his blonde hair slicked back and his eyes narrowed, stern, behind his glasses.

“Hello, Snow,” he murmurs, raising one trim brow as he looks up and down Snow’s body. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Snow blinks, trying to peer over Bartholomew’s shoulder to see if Hope is anywhere in sight. “Uh...yeah. I got a message from Hope, he said to come by, he has something for me…?”

Bartholomew pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully; but then he nods, stepping aside to let Snow in. “Yes...I do believe I know what he’s talking about. Please, come in. I’ll go fetch it from his room.”

“Oh, uh...thanks.” Snow steps inside the house and shuts the door behind him, lingering awkwardly in the entry way as Bartholomew starts up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

“Please, Snow,” he calls, leaning over the banister a little to be better heard by his guest. “Have a seat--it will take me a moment or two to find it, among all of Hope’s things. I will return shortly.”

“...Alright.” 

Snow watches the older man continue up the stairs, and it’s only when he’s disappeared into one of the bedrooms--Snow assumes it’s Hope’s--that he walks over to a sleek couch and sinks down onto it with a sigh. He glances around the room once, briefly, still unable to shake the ominous feeling that lingers in his gut; but he insists to himself that he’s being ridiculous, then settles back against the cushions and starts to go over his shopping list, trying to decide what he needs to pick up from the store after he’s done here.

What Snow doesn’t know is that a pair of hungry eyes watch him from the shadows, and he will not make it back home.


	2. Chapter 2

Snow sits in Bartholomew’s living room for what feels like half an hour--at the very least, it’s an uncomfortably long amount of time--and with a sigh he gets to his feet, deciding that he can come back another time, when Hope is around to find whatever Snow’s package is. He’s still tired, still on the fritz; the last thing he wants to do is sit around the Estheim manor all day.

But no sooner has he turned around, taken a step toward the door, then Bartholomew comes out of seemingly nowhere to smoothly step in front of him.

“Ah...where are you going, Snow?” he asks, his thin lips turned down in a frown. “Are you leaving already?”

Snow scratches at the back of his neck with a sheepish noise. “I was just--I mean, I have some things I need to do today--”

“Oh, I understand. I do apologize for taking up so much of your time, but I did find your package upstairs.” Bartholomew gestures toward the stairs with a sweep of his arm. “It’s too big for me to carry alone. You’ll have to come see it in person. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to carry it?”

Snow hesitates, then at Bartholomew’s continued gesturing he shrugs and starts toward the stairs; looks like he’s going to be here just a bit longer than he thought. He does wonder what Hope might have scored that’s big enough to warrant him grabbing it, though.

“I can try,” he says, keenly aware of each thunk of his heavy boots on the polished hardwood floors--he feels like he doesn’t belong in this house, like it can sense what he’s taken away from it and refuses to let him be at peace. “What, uh…what did Hope get me? To be honest, I didn’t think he would be too fond of me, after….you know….”

“The Purge, you mean,” Bartholomew says, his voice suddenly harsh from over Snow’s shoulder. When Snow glances over at him, Bartholomew’s face is schooled into neutrality; but there’s something glinting deep and dark in his tawny eyes that has Snow on edge, that has his muscles stiffening and a sudden wave of trepidation washing over him. “When you let Nora die. When you took a loving woman away from her son and husband.”

Snow comes to a stop in the hallway, and there’s silence between them for a moment--until Bartholomew’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing at the tensed muscle there. “Is that what you were referring to, Snow?”

Snow holds his gaze for a moment longer, swallowing his initial scathing response; because as much as he’d like to defend himself, he really can’t. Bartholomew’s words aren’t too far off from the truth.

So instead, he stares at Bartholomew and haltingly replies, “...yes, that’s...that’s what I was talking about.”

“I thought so.” Bartholomew reaches out to open the door, then uses the hand on Snow’s shoulder to steer him inside. “Don’t worry about it--I’m sure he’ll get over the loss of his mother eventually. Until then, we’ll just have to find something to fill that void.”

“Something to fill the void,” Snow repeats, dubious as he walks inside and looks around--the room is unlit, dark. Even without the lights on he can tell it’s small, and his unease only mounts as he hears Bartholomew stir behind him. “So, where is this package…?”

He turns around, searching for the older man; and whips back around, staggering on his feet, as a shock of white-hot pain lances through his temple like a knife. Snow crumples to the ground with a gasping wheeze, blinking blearily as the light from the hallway starts to fade--and the last thing he sees is Bartholomew’s shadow, featureless and looming as it stands tall over him. 

The dark swallows him up in a rush, and he knows no more. 

-x-

When Snow comes to, he finds himself stripped naked in a room of pearl white, tied fast to a heavy wooden chair.

He looks around blearily, the lights overhead blurred and starbursting in his vision; he’s in a bathroom, he thinks, from what he can see. There’s a sink across from him and a toilet beside that, a bathtub against the wall on the right side--but there’s also footsteps approaching, he can hear. He tries to squirm, pulling against the coarse ropes that hold his wrists and ankles tied, and only grows more panicked in his movements as the bondage holds firm.

Then the door opens, and he finds himself staring up at the face of Bartholomew.

“Ah.” Bartholomew smiles--a sharp, wicked thing, something akin to madness gleaming in his eyes--and comes closer, cupping Snow’s cheek in his hand and running his thumb over the scruffy line of his jawbone. “You’re awake...lovely. Now we can get started.”

“Started with what?” Snow spits, jerking his hand out of Bartholomew’s palm and glaring up at the older man. He tries to pretend he doesn’t see how Bartholomew’s eyes wander slowly over his vulnerable body, taking in every curve and plane of muscle, every inch of pale flesh that now lies totally exposed. “Bartholomew! What the fuck is going on?”

The slap from Bartholomew’s heavy hand is swift and turns his head, has Snow choking on his breath from the sudden pain. Bartholomew’s nails bite into his skin as he grabs Snow’s chin in his fingers, squeezing and turning Snow’s face up to meet his angry stare.

“You listen to me, you son of a bitch,” Bartholomew hisses. “I haven’t forgotten about what you did--what you took from me. It’s because of you that my Nora is gone, and I’ve spent every night since that day lying awake, alone in my bed, wondering just how I was going to make you pay.”

He pauses for a breath, and Snow tries to interject, “Bartholomew, please--”

“Silence!” Another slap rains down from the opposite side, and Snow can hear his jaw pop under the strike as his vision briefly blurs. “Since you took my wife from me, you will be my new one. You will do exactly as I command you to, and you will not leave this house. You will be obedient and docile and pretty, just as much as my sweet Nora was.”

He digs his fingers in harder, his blunt fingernails cutting into Snow’s flesh and leaving angry red crescents in their wake; and then he leans in close, until his voice is but a whisper.

“You belong to me now, Snow,” he breathes--and there’s something in his tone that speaks not of a threat, but of a promise. “Say goodbye to whatever life you thought you had. You’re _mine_ , now.”


	3. Chapter 3

Snow tries to object again, tries to toss his head and wriggle and strain against his bonds, and all he earns is a blow to his temple from Bartholomew’s closed fist that has him seeing stars. His head lolls back and his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back in his head as he sits there, stunned by the hit; and he’s only dimly aware of the feeling of fabric being forced past his teeth, tied securely behind his head, pressing his tongue down against the bottom of his mouth. The dull buzz of an electric razor barely registers in his head until he feels the first press of it against his navel, and he looks down to find Bartholomew kneeling there, his free hand holding Snow’s legs open and the razor hovering over the pale thatch of hair curling between Snow’s thighs.

“You’d better sit still, now,” he murmurs, looking up at Snow with a grim smile. “I’d hate to cut something important.”

And the threat, while said mockingly and sing-song, is still very real. Snow bites down on the gag to stay still as Bartholomew starts to move the razor, slowly clipping away the coarse curls of his pubes in careful, steady strokes, leaving nothing but stubbled pale flesh behind. 

“These are nice,” he comments, weighing Snow’s balls in one hand, rolling them in his palm before he lifts them up to shave underneath. Snow shivers at the buzzing vibrations against the sensitive nerves of his taint. “Tight and cute...too bad you’ll never get the chance to use them properly.” He turns the razor, shaving away the little row of hairs in the fold of skin where Snow’s balls meet up with his pelvis, and his grip turns tight to keep his captured prey still. “Still, I can keep them as a little decoration, don’t you think?”

Snow stares down at him, his eyes wide and his gag starting to soak through with drool, and Bartholomew smiles. “I think I will. Just to remind you--just so you know exactly what you’ve lost.”

His work complete, Bartholomew stands up and pats Snow’s cheek briskly, walking over to the sink to return the electric razor to its home. When he comes back to Snow’s side, however, Bartholomew lingers behind him; putting one hand on the back of Snow’s head and leaning in close to his ear to whisper, “And before you even start thinking it--it doesn’t matter if you try to fight this or not.” His free hand moves, trailing his fingertips down Snow’s cheek, his touch feather-light. “At the end of the day, I always get what I want.”

Snow’s reply is muffled by his gag, but Bartholomew isn’t bothered by it. Instead, he moves his fingers to dig them into the back of Snow’s head, until he’s pressing up through his messy hair to massage the back of his skull directly. The incantation comes to his lips easily--just as easily as it did with Nora, all those years ago--and Bartholomew is delighted to see it start to take effect before he’s even done, the magic words whispered in Snow’s ear forcing the muscles in his body to relax, making his pupils blow wide and impossibly dark. He sags down in the chair, the tension bleeding out of his body; and when Bartholomew circles around him, he finds Snow’s face lax and calm, his dark eyes half-lidded. 

“There we go,” Bartholomew coos, pleased as he unties the gag and pulls it away, running his thumb across Snow’s parted lips. “There’s my pretty girl...aren’t you, Snow?”

Snow stares at him dumbly for a moment, his jaw slack; Bartholomew can all but see the gears trying to sluggishly turn in his head. “...what?”

“My wife. My pretty Snow.” Bartholomew cups Snow’s cheek and looks into his blown, glassy eyes with a smile. “Let’s get you out of these ropes, baby. You’ve gotta get cleaned up, we have a date tonight.” He pauses for effect, then asks, feigning hurt, “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“I...no,” Snow says, urgently, his lips pulled down in a frown. “No, of course not…”

“Good,” Bartholomew purrs, working quickly to untie Snow’s legs and his wrists, then offering a hand to help him up; and Snow stands on unsteady legs, wobbling like a newborn deer, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself like he’s just noticed his nudity. 

“Bartholomew,” he whispers, looking around as he stays huddled close to Bartholomew’s side, following as he’s led down the hall toward Bartholomew’s bedroom. “Where...what happened? What’s going on?”

“It’s alright, Snow,” Bartholomew murmurs, lying an arm over Snow’s shoulders and guiding him into his bedroom; the door closes with a snap behind them that has Snow flinching, but Bartholomew just pulls him closer, brings him over to the bed. “Sit, my dear. You want to look pretty for our date tonight, don’t you?”

Snow sits down on the edge of the bed and nods, uncertain, his hands nervously fisting at the comforter beneath him--it’s cute, in an endearing kind of way, to see him so vulnerable. Bartholomew can’t hide his smile as he turns to the closet.

Nora’s clothes hang exactly where they had before she left; Bartholomew hasn’t dared to touch them since her death. But now he rifles through them with ease, flipping through the gowns and skirts and dresses until he finds one he likes--a slimming black dress with a glittery, pearl-dotted collar, a slit up the leg that Bartholomew knows would show off Snow’s pale thighs beautifully, a low-slung back and window in the front that used to do an excellent job of showcasing Nora’s cleavage. Bartholomew pulls it from the closet and lays it on the bed, and a quick rifle through Nora’s dresser produces the rest of the outfit: black fishnet stockings, a pair of pearl-white panties with a tiny pink bow in the front, a black choker necklace outlined in white lace. He sets all his offerings on the bed and steps back, gesturing with one hand toward the clothing.

“Get dressed, my dear.” Snow looks from the clothes to Bartholomew and back again, his eyes wide and uncertain, and Bartholomew smiles as he heads for the door.

“I will be waiting for you downstairs,” he says, casting one lingering gaze at Snow before he starts to close the door. “Don’t disappoint me.”


	4. Chapter 4

And Snow--his good boy, his new, perfect wife--does not disappoint.

He comes down the stairs like a wet dream come to life, wobbling a little on the red heels that wrap tight and strappy around his ankles; and the slim dress does a better job fitting him and showing off his curves than it ever did on Nora. Each step has Snow’s creamy thigh exposed in the slit of the dress and it’s enough to have Bartholomew’s mouth watering.

He almost can’t focus on the dinner, for how eager he is to taste his dessert.

“Come here, Snow,” he says, when he’s eaten enough to sate his hunger; he scoots his chair back and pats his thighs with a beckoning noise, and smiles widely as he watches his new wife get up, unsteady on his heels, and cross the room to him.

“...yes, Bartholomew?”

“On your knees.” Bartholomew spreads his thighs and leans back in his chair, his smirk devilish. “I think it would be prudent for you to thank me for the lovely dinner I provided, don’t you?”

Snow licks his lips--Bartholomew delights in the thin spread of gloss across his skin from the swipe of his tongue--and looks up at him, his uncertainty clear on his face. “Thank you?”

“Yes, you dumb whore. Get my cock out and suck me off.”

Snow doesn’t hesitate again; just reaches for the zip of Bartholomew’s pants and pulls his cock free with careful hands, letting the half-hard, warm meat settle in his palm as he studies it--like he’s planning some method of attack. Always planning, his Snow.

Bartholomew will have none of it.

He grabs a fistful of snowy hair and jerks Snow down onto his cock, forcing the dry length past the cage of his teeth and further, into the tight heat of his throat. Snow gags at the intrusion but Bartholomew doesn’t care--and he doesn’t let Snow care, either, as he tightens his grip in Snow’s hair and forces him down further, further, until he can feel the hard stop of where Snow’s throat curves and there are tears welling up in those bright eyes.

“That’s it,” Bartholomew moans, tipping his head back and letting his hips roll, pulling his cock free only to feed it right back past Snow’s lips. His hands scrabble to hold onto the back of Snow’s head, keeping him still while he fucks into that slack, willing mouth, delighting in the feeling of Snow’s drool running down his balls. “Take it, whore, take it…”

And Snow does, his beautiful new wife stays there on his knees and keeps his mouth open, his glassy eyes starting to water when the thick cock assaulting his throat jams in and makes him choke. It doesn’t take long for Bartholomew to reach his peak, seeing the little bastard on the floor in front of him; and Bartholomew pulls back when he cums, jerking his slick cock to paint over Snow’s face with thick, pearly ropes of cum, letting the jizz streak across Snow’s painted lips and clump in his teary eyelashes.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, giving Snow’s cheek a rough pat before leaning back in his chair and panting softly. “You go on and get cleaned up, and get in bed. Daddy will be along in a moment.”

Snow obeys because of course he does, the hypnosis still holding his mind tight; he gets up on legs as unsteady as a foal’s and wobbles his way toward the staircase, and when he stumbles on one stair Bartholomew is treated to the sight of Snow’s white panties, starkly visible through the slit in the side of the dress and oh so charmingly feminine.

He can’t wait to tear them off and have Snow taste them.

Bartholomew gives himself a moment to recover--a chance for Snow to have the time to obey his order, to wash himself off properly and fix his clothes--and then he heads upstairs, chasing the faint scent of white plum that Snow had left in his wake. When he opens the bedroom door it’s to find Snow sitting on the bed with his shoes still on and his dress pulled up around his thighs, and Bartholomew’s mouth waters at the tempting sight.

“Good.” He crosses the room and pushes Snow down onto the bed, and wastes no time in grabbing a bottle of lube from the nightstand. Before Snow has had time to do much more than whine at the rough treatment, Bartholomew has torn the panties off Snow’s trim hips and stuffed them past his lips, using two fingertips to hold them down against Snow’s tongue.

“You keep those in so I don’t have to listen to your whining while I fuck you.”

He doesn’t need to wait for Snow to agree to the demand--it’s not like he has a choice. So instead he grabs Snow’s ankles and spreads his thighs, then squirts a dollop of lube right onto the sensitive skin behind his balls and starts to rub it in around Snow’s puckered hole, smirking when he hears his new wife’s muffled little gasp at the chill. 

“You’d better get this ass ready, baby,” he sneers, unbuckling his pants and shoving them down just enough to pull his cock and balls free. He slaps his cock a few times on the soft curve of Snow’s ass, then digs his fingers into one cheek to pull it aside, and with absolutely zero hesitation he rolls his hips forward to thrust smoothly into Snow’s unprepared hole.

The panties can’t entirely muffle Snow’s cry of pain, and Bartholomew snickers at it, not giving him any time to adjust before he starts up a rhythm of slow, luxurious thrusts deep into Snow’s ass. He fucks into the tight hole with fervor, balls slapping noisily against the meat of Snow’s plush ass cheeks; and when Snow’s body has relaxed enough to accept the fucking, when his squirming and whimpering has quieted down and his hole has slackened, Bartholomew deals his next blow.

He lifts the hypnosis.


	5. Chapter 5

Bartholomew can tell the exact moment that Snow comes back to himself--when his pretty eyes clear up and his body tenses, and he goes rigid under Bartholomew with a muffled shout of pained confusion--and he grabs at Snow’s throat, squeezing tight as he rocks his hips in deeper.

“You stay still now, whore,” he growls, squeezing harder at Snow’s neck as he spits out the panties and starts to squirm, trying to kick out from under Bartholomew’s greater weight. “You were enjoying yourself so far, so let me finish up.”

“B-Bartholo--mew!” Snow gasps, his hands grabbing at Bartholomew’s wrist as the color starts to rush up into his cheeks. “W-wait--what--Bartholomew--”

“Are you going to behave?” Bartholomew asks, giving Snow’s trachea a sharp squeeze just for emphasis and grinning at the way it makes him wheeze. “Stop fighting me and I’ll let you breathe. All you need to do is just lay there and enjoy it. Are you going to do that for me?”

Snow hesitates, but another squeeze has him nodding as much as he can, his eyes starting to tear up. “Y-y-yes! Yes!”

Bartholomew releases his hand--cautiously, slowly, watching Snow for any kind of movement--and starts to settle into his rhythm again, fucking into him in slow, easy thrusts. 

“Good,” he starts, sighing in pleasure as his hands settle on Snow’s hips again, starting to pull his tense body back into each rock of his hips. “That’s a good girl--”

But then Snow is arching, bellowing, planting his feet on Bartholomew’s chest and kicking him away; he rolls off the bed and makes an effort to get to his feet, and no sooner has he grabbed for the doorframe than Bartholomew’s hand is right back on the back of his head, tangled up in a fistful of pale hair.

“What a shame,” Bartholomew growls, his voice low as he reinstates the hold of the hypnosis. Snow locks up under the touch, before his body goes lax, his knees wobbling. “And here I thought we were making progress.”

Snow’s reply is a weak keen as he’s forced back under the hold of the hypnosis, and he drops down to his knees as the will and the fight fades from his muscles, staring blankly out of the open door at the freedom that he wanted no more than two minutes ago.

“I’m so disappointed in you, Snow,” Bartholomew growls, using the grip in Snow’s hair to drag him inside, and toward the master bathroom attached to the bedroom. Snow whimpers under him and Bartholomew snarls, giving his head a rough shake. “Shut up, whore. Get in here--get naked. Now you’ve made me have to punish you.”

“Sir,” Snow whimpers, his hands trembling as he grabs at his dress with trembling hands and starts to work the fabric off. “W-wait--please. I don’t--”

“I said shut up!” Bartholomew snaps, backhanding Snow with enough force to have his head snapping to the side with a yelp. He pulls a pocket knife from his belt and grabs a fistful of the fine dress, and starts to cut it off with rapid slashes, careless of how the blade nicks Snow’s pale skin and pulls up thin lines of crimson. “You were a bad girl, and now you have to be punished. You want to try to leave me, huh? You want to try to walk out?”

He rips the rest of the dress off and pulls it away, then shoves Snow backward, crowding in around him until he all but falls backward into the bathtub. Snow looks up at him with wide, teary eyes, and Bartholomew growls, dropping down to his knees between Snow’s splayed legs.

“I didn’t want to punish you,” he says, grabbing Snow’s face in his hands, the blade of his pocket knife gleaming dangerously close to his eye. He squeezes Snow’s cheeks, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “I don’t like punishing you, my sweet Snow. But when you misbehave, you make me angry...and you were very bad. You tried to escape, tried to run away, and I can’t have that. We can’t have that, can we?”

Snow stares at him a moment longer, then shakes his head, his breath hitching. Bartholomew gently pets down his cheek with the back of his fingers.

“That’s right. Now Daddy’s got to make sure that you won’t ever do this again.” He leans back and grabs Snow’s ankles, hauling him around until he’s laid out in the tub with his arms crossed over his chest, hugging himself. Bartholomew tuts at him, standing up and going to the medicine cabinet to pull out a black pouch of tools.

“I want you to remember that Daddy loves you, little girl,” he says, unzipping the pouch and laying it open--inside are gleaming silver surgical tools, from a razor-sharp scalpel to a spool of thin black thread. Bartholomew pulls out a little vial of clear fluid and a hypodermic needle from the pouch, and holds them both up to the light as he starts to draw out a few milliliters of the fluid. “That’s the only reason I’m doing this--because you were a bad girl, and I don’t want you to ever even think about leaving me again.”

He turns back around and returns to the tub, dropping down into a crouch with the needle in hand. His free hand goes to Snow’s face, cupping his cheek in his palm. “Do you understand, Snow?”

Snow looks between the needle and Bartholomew’s face, and when he blinks a fresh tear rolls down his cheek. “I-I don’t--I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice weak and quiet. “What...what are you going to do to me?”

“I told you, baby,” Bartholomew says, lining the needle up with Snow’s neck and sliding it into one of the veins that pulses under his skin with his racing heartbeat. “You tried to leave. And now I’m going to make sure you don’t even think about leaving, ever again.”

He pulls the needle out and sits back, watching Snow’s face hungrily--watching the tranquilizer make his frown go slack as it rushes through his bloodstream, erasing the worry lines on his forehead. He sets the syringe down and returns to his pouch of tools, plucking a small bone saw free and setting it on the tile, then grabbing the scalpel.

“Here we go, baby,” Bartholomew coos, and presses the blade to the seam of Snow’s hip.


	6. Chapter 6

The operation goes smoothly--Bartholomew’s practiced hands make quick work of Snow’s limbs, his steady scalpel slicing neatly through Snow’s skin and muscle to disassemble his joints one by one. Crimson runs thick in the tub, stopped only by a shot of vasoconstrictor in the meat of Snow’s thigh and Bartholomew’s swift stitching, thread pulled tight through dissected flesh to stop the worst of the bleeding. When he’s done, Bartholomew cleans his tools and replaces them in his black surgical bag, then bends down to gather the unconscious Snow up in his arms. 

He carries his mutilated prize back to the bedroom and lays him on top of the covers, tucking them in around Snow’s chin and wiping a spot of drool off his slack lips with a gentle touch. He goes back to the bathroom and gathers up both of Snow’s arms and legs, then stuffs them down into the black contractor bag he’d brought in; a quick twist and a knot tied into the top and then Bartholomew is off, driving to a secluded cliff overlooking the beach with the bag in tow. 

And when he tosses the bag off the edge and into the churning sea, he does so with a smile--knowing that now Snow is without a doubt his new wife, for the rest of his life.

-x-  
Snow wakes up into a world of pain and confusion.

As soon as he comes to, the first he notices is how much he hurts--his shoulders and hips feel like they’re alight with fire, pulsing with pain in time to every beat of his heart. He opens his eyes and makes a move to reach up, to rub the forced sleep from them, and finds that he can’t.

It’s only then that he looks down, and even the lingering tranquilizer can’t stop him from screaming.

Bartholomew is there in an instant, appearing from somewhere in the hallway, and Snow looks to him blindly--is crying, trembling where he lies, panicked and horrified at the stumps that remain of his arms, his legs. He wants to move away, wants to shriek, but then Bartholomew’s hand is cupping the back of his head and as quickly as it had come, the terror ebbs away.

“There you go,” Bartholomew murmurs, his voice a soft, soothing thing, and Snow finds himself closing his eyes and clinging on every word. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he continues, leaning down to press a kiss to Snow’s cheeks and savouring the salt of his tears on his tongue. “Daddy just did this to keep you safe. You know that, right? Daddy doesn’t want you to go out and hurt yourself, and this makes it easier for me to take care of you, princess. Don’t cry.”

Snow’s only reply comes in the way of leaning into Bartholomew’s warmth, a weak whimper leaving him as he tries to press himself as close as he can to the other man--to his daddy, to his only remaining source of security. Above him Bartholomew pets his fingers through Snow’s soft, pale hair, and asks him, “Do you still hurt, baby?”

Snow hesitates, but only briefly; now that the panic has faded, the pain in his stumps is returning with a vengeance. He nods against Bartholomew’s torso, and looks up at his daddy’s urging, obligingly opening his mouth to accept the small white pill that Bartholomew holds against his lips.

“This’ll help you,” Bartholomew says, lying his hand over Snow’s mouth and watching him swallow. “While it starts to kick in, I’m going to do something else, too…”

He picks Snow up around the middle and hefts him up, then carries him over to the corner of the bedroom, right beside the window. There’s already a few things set up there that Snow doesn’t recognize--a sleek metal frame with a tiny battery pack attached to it, a wooden box sitting right beside--and as he’s set face-down on the floor, Snow can only listen and look as Bartholomew goes about setting the contraption up.

“I was a little concerned about you not being able to fit...but that problem has been fixed,” he says, chuckling as he opens the box and pulls a sleek purple dildo from it. He attaches it to one of the poles of the machine and lifts it up into position, and the click of it locking into place is loud enough to make Snow startle where he lies. “And now when I’m off to work, I can make sure that you’re going to behave, and not get up to any trouble.” He reaches over to pat Snow’s head. “Isn’t that good, sweetheart?”

Snow hums in agreement, his concentration fading; the effects of the pill are starting to kick in, making him feel loose and warm. He feels Bartholomew pick him up again, feels something soft be tucked under his hips to raise him and feels cool leather fastened around his throat, around his waist. 

Then he feels the intrusion in his ass.

Snow squirms and cries out as he feels Bartholomew’s fingers work his ass open, then his big hands grab at Snow’s hips and pull him backward, feeding the dildo into him inch by insistent inch. When it’s fully seated, Snow feels like he can taste the silicone up into the back of his throat.

Bartholomew pets at his head again, fastening the last buckle to hold Snow’s hips in place, then leans back on his heels to admire his work--with Snow’s lithe body laid out flat, his hips lifted up with a cushion to line him up with the dildo currently crammed into his ass. His cheek rests on the hardwood floor, his eyes blown and glassy as he stares up at Bartholomew, his mouth slack; and Bartholomew smiles at him.

“Here we go, princess. This’ll get you nice and worked out for me.”

Bartholomew flips a switch to turn the fucking machine on, and Snow’s mind is all but immediately lost to the haze.


End file.
